In the Wreckage: (M/M Sci-Fi Military Romance) (Metahuman Files Book 1)

by Hailey Turner

  “I thought Mother was joining us?” Jamie asked. The table was set for two, not three, when the invitation masquerading as an order he’d received during cleanup in Chicago had mentioned both his parents would be in attendance tonight.

  “She decided not to fly out from New York after watching you and your team on the news. You know how much she hates watching you work. It puts her in a mood.”

  Charlotte Jacqueline Callahan, née Montgomery, was as blue-blooded as they came. A socialite who only worked the elite circles of society in a dozen countries, Charlotte came from old money tied to tech companies, real estate, and water rights. Her family was known more nowadays for their multibillion dollar ownership of a luxury space cruise line that ferried wealthy customers around Earth and the Moon, promising the greatest view in the solar system.

  Charlotte had spent her life fundraising for charities, going to parties and galas, and smiling for the cameras. While Jamie’s little sister, Leah Callahan, was following in their mother’s footsteps, Charlotte had never been happy with Jamie’s decision to join the Marines. The only reason his father had encouraged Jamie to join up in the first place was because it made a nice background story for when Jamie would inevitably follow in Richard’s footsteps.

  That would never happen now.

  The waiter returned and politely gained their attention. “May I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”

  “A bottle of the 2240 Château d'Armailhac,” Richard said.

  “Certainly, Senator. An excellent choice.”

  The waiter left. Jamie didn’t bother perusing the menu.

  “She didn’t leave me a message,” Jamie finally said.

  “I told her not to.”

  Which meant her mood was most likely a full-on crying jag and emotional maelstrom that only a mother could produce. Charlotte wasn’t prone to histrionics—she considered such breakdowns gauche—but ever since Jamie returned from Tripoli three years ago, his mother had been breaking her own rules left, right, and center when it came to personal protocol.

  Jamie fought back a wince. “She didn’t have to watch.”

  Richard arched an eyebrow. “The fight was on every news stream, and two dozen others pushed their schedules back to air a breaking news segment. It’s going to be part of everyone’s conversation for the next week at the least, so, no, she couldn’t just ignore what was happening.”

  Jamie felt the old urge to apologize creep through him and he swallowed down the words. His mother had been proud when he graduated from Annapolis, even if she’d been worried about what the future would bring. Jamie had apologized to his mother twice over the years for his career decisions: once when he chose to continue on with the Marine Corps after his obligatory five-year contract was up and again when he chose to keep fighting with the MDF instead of taking the option to retire. That second time resulted in a vicious argument with his family that lasted days. The fallout was still being felt three years later.

  Family dinners could be particularly tense. No wonder why Katie never wanted to trade.

  The waiter returned with the master sommelier at his side, who presented the bottle to Richard to view the label before uncorking it with easy practice. He showed off the cork to prove it was intact before pouring a small amount into Richard’s glass. Jamie watched his father sniff and taste the wine before nodding his approval. The master sommelier promptly poured them both a glass before leaving the wine bottle on the table and disappearing.

  “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.

  “I’ll have the crab cakes to start with and the roast chicken,” Richard said.

  “Lovely. And for you, sir?”

  “The white bean soup, a Caesar salad, and the prime rib with all the sides,” Jamie said.

  If the waiter thought Jamie was ordering more food than one person could respectfully eat, he didn’t question it. Jamie had eaten a number of high-calorie nutrient bars under the watchful eyes of the nurses on duty, but metahumans all had extremely fast metabolisms and he was starving again. Fighting always left him ravenously hungry.

  Their menus were taken away and their bubble of privacy returned, helped along by the white noise jammer Richard employed at all his meals outside the family home, and even sometimes within it on occasion. Meeting like this in the open was a risk, but they had both taken precautions even before arriving. Their careful conversation was merely an outgrowth of a professional paranoia neither would ever shake.

  Richard took a sip of his wine before saying, “Your mother cares for you very much, but this has been hard on her.”

  “You think it’s been easy for me?” Jamie asked sharply, tamping down hard on his temper.

  Richard shook his head, mouth twisting. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Jamie leaned back in his seat and didn’t bother hiding how he clenched his teeth. “I chose to stay on because it was the right thing to do. I don’t regret that choice.”

  “Your mother does.”

  Jamie rubbed hard at his eyes with one hand, pressing his fingers down until bright spots exploded across the back of his eyelids. “I don’t care. I can’t care. What you wanted me to do with my life is not an option on any table, Father. Not anymore.”

  “It could be,” Richard said after a brief pause. “Your mother has been helping to raise funds for several research projects looking into finding a cure for Splice.”

  “There is no cure for Splice when it comes to metahumans,” Jamie snapped, keeping his voice low.

  “There are promising results of anti-Splice vaccines coming out of several clinical trials—”

  “They won’t find anything. They never do. She shouldn’t waste her time—”

  “Looking after you is not wasting our time,” Richard cut in icily.

  Jamie snapped his mouth shut, the sudden rushing sound in his ears the adrenaline in his veins. He took a deep breath and held onto his words as the waiter appeared at their table again and served them their starters before slipping away. Jamie stared blankly down at his salad before he picked up his fork and stabbed at the lettuce while his soup cooled.

  “A century of research has produced nothing,” Jamie said tightly. “What makes you think a few years of throwing money at the problem is going to produce the desired results? If anyone manages to create a vaccine against Splice, that still won’t help metahumans. There is no cure for us out there.”

  Richard cut into his crab cake with his fork. “Would you rather we do nothing?”

  “I’m alive, Father. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

  The silence that lingered over their table lasted until they finished their first course. Jamie shoved his empty bowl aside and looked everywhere but at his father as their dishes were removed.

  “Your mother and I . . .” Richard began before trailing off. After a moment, he cleared his throat and forged ahead. “We worry about you. We always have. A lot of this could have been avoided if you’d just listened to us in the first place.”

  “I did, remember? I went to Annapolis.”

  Jamie met his father’s gaze without blinking. He was his father’s son through and through in many ways, having been raised in an elite political family, and he knew how to hear what wasn’t being said better than most people.

  They’d wanted him to serve for only five years, finish his commission as an officer, and retire into a life of wealth and politics. At thirty, Jamie should have already worked on several political campaigns in preparation of running for his own seat in Congress, and eventually, the Senate. Except he had done none of that, had stayed on with the Marines and later with the Metahuman Defense Force. The structure found in the military was something he hadn’t known he was missing in his life until he experienced it. Staying on was the first real instance of him truly defying his parents, but it hadn’t been the last.

  “What is this dinner really about other than the fact Mother has added more charities to her roster?”

  Richard met his gaze
and didn’t look away. “What do you think?”

  It took Jamie a few moments before his mind started putting scattered bits of information together to form a solid whole with a sureness he never doubted, especially not in the field. If anything, his family was simply another minefield, the traps set to emotionally maim instead of physically kill. Jamie’s skill in seeing the big picture from its disparate parts was what made him an excellent leader. Slowly, he put his wine glass down.

  “It’s a midterm election year,” Jamie said.

  Except his father wasn’t up for reelection this time around. He still had two years left to serve in the Senate. His mother had a carefully planned out charitable agenda that coincided with her husband’s career path. Adding several new charities for such a politically charged issue like Splice would gain them no political points without a fight.

  A presidential election was always a fight.

  Jamie’s appetite took a nosedive even as they were served their entrées by two waiters. He stared blankly down at his prime rib, the slab of meat cooked to seared perfection, the side dishes arrayed around the plate in easy reach. Fresh bread still warm from the oven was placed in the center of the table and their wine glasses topped up before the waiters left.

  “We decided not to wait another six years after my current term is over,” Richard finally said as he started to cut into his chicken.

  Jamie said nothing.

  “You knew this was coming, Jamie. Our entire family has worked toward this for years. Your mother and I expect you to be available when I announce my intentions to run for the presidency in six months.”

  “I’m not giving up my commission,” Jamie ground out, finding his voice. Even to his own ears, he knew he sounded furious.

  His status and identity as a metahuman was classified at the highest level only because he worked with the MDF. If he left the organization and returned to civilian life, he would have the legal option to disclose his status, if not his service record. Having a former Marine and MDF officer as a son would be anyone’s best preemptive strike against political opponents, but most especially for a Republican. The White House was not something that party gained very often, much less kept through two consecutive presidencies.

  “Don’t be unreasonable, Jamie,” Richard replied. “You’ve given enough for this country. There are safer ways for you to continue the fight.”

  “By letting you use me, is that it? Time for you to parade your fine upstanding son before the cameras of the world and wax poetic about my sacrifices all for a bunch of political bullshit?”

  Richard shot him a hard look. “Watch your tone with me, son.”

  Maybe that reprimand would have worked when he was younger and fenced in by the confines of a life that never fit, but he was older now, and a survivor of more battles than his father could ever dream of seeing.

  “What is it you always said about quitting, Father? We Callahans don’t do it. The fight isn’t over yet and I’m not standing down. You really can’t make me.”

  “The fight has been going on for centuries. Lone wolf terror attacks, jihadist inspired attacks, cartel territory battles—however you look at it, the war will never be over. At some point, you need to stand down before they put you down. Your mother and I don’t want to bury you.”

  Jamie knew his parents cared for him, cared about him, but Jamie also knew his father was a shrewd politician who used his words like a weapon, even against his own family, to get what he wanted.

  Jamie took the napkin off his lap and tossed it on the table, not caring that a corner of it sank into the creamed spinach bowl. “You taught me a lot of lessons over the years, Father. Here’s one for you.”

  Jamie stood up and walked away, knowing his father wouldn’t call him back for fear of risking a scene in public. As much as his family loved each other in wars of give and take, they knew to showcase a united front in public even as they tore each other apart in private.

  Maybe if he’d still been in the Marine Corps he would have a different answer. Maybe if he didn’t feel such a deep calling to serve and protect he could more easily abandon his post to further his father’s career. Tripoli had changed his view of the world, the same way Splice had changed every last strand of DNA in his cells into something different, something more. Jamie loved his family and always would, but he had never loved the politics that defined them. He didn’t have a choice in what he’d become, the Russian Roulette of genetic evolution giving him a pass when it knocked out so many others, but Jamie had a choice in how he lived his life.

  He refused to let his father live it for him.

  3

  All the Living Are Dead

  Jamie didn’t know the name of the bar he ended up in, only that it catered to the techie elite, business-oriented and political types, not your Average Joe or those in the military, and it had a solid selection of brand-name whiskey he’d been drinking like water for the past hour. Shame he didn’t feel anywhere close to drunk, but he rather thought he could make it to buzzed if he emptied another bottle or two of Macallan twenty-five years.

  His enhanced durability went hand in hand with his enhanced strength, but it also meant Jamie couldn’t get drunk unless he really, really tried. At one hundred dollars a glass, price wasn’t an issue. Keeping his cover intact was the more pressing problem. He’d left The Georgetown wearing a suit, not a uniform, which meant he needed to steer clear of the bars he and his team usually frequented so as to not invite questions. A strange place put him on edge, but better that than having to explain to people with too-knowing eyes why he was in such a shitty mood.

  Back when he was in the Corps, Jamie thought the Lance Corporal Underground was the gold standard of rumormongering, but it had nothing on nosy MDF agents.

  Jamie chased the last dregs of whiskey in his glass before setting it down on the bar counter. He stared at the empty glass and tilted it from side to side, careful to keep his grip just shy of breaking. It’d been a struggle when he first got turned into a metahuman to figure out the changes in his body. He’d ruined untold numbers of doors and pieces of furniture, not to mention weapons, during his learning curve. Sometimes he still thought the body he lived in wasn’t his own, but those moments were few and far between now, usually in the aftermath of nightmares at ass o’clock in the morning.

  “You want another?” the bartender dubiously asked as he braced himself against the counter across from Jamie.

  Jamie nudged the glass closer to the bartender’s side. “Make it a double.”

  “I feel like I should cut you off after the four you’ve already finished.”

  “Should you, then?” Jamie asked, not bothering to keep the bite out of his voice.

  The bartender was younger than him, and certainly not wiser, but he was smart in the way of a man who peddled the answers to life’s many problems to drunk people. He knew when someone was done and when they weren’t. He poured Jamie a glass filled right to the top without another word.

  Jamie swiped his palm over the small payment sensor embedded in the synthwood counter, listening for the faint beep that signified his account was debited. The tiny, government-issued RealIdent chip buried in his left wrist amidst the bioware implanted there had several identities built into it which could be activated in a variety of ways. They could also be destroyed by a kill switch command he’d only had to use a few times in his life. Jamie had opted to remain himself tonight, as much as he could. His father didn’t make it easy.

  He’d finished half the glass when someone slid into the empty bar stool beside him, the one which had remained empty ever since he arrived. Jamie was putting off a solid air of negativity that only a blind man would miss, and everyone in the bar had steered clear of his space without issue. Until now.

  “Go away,” Jamie growled.

  “I’m not buying you a drink, I’m buying myself one,” a voice told him. Jamie’s ears picked up a faint accent that sounded like Russia by way of being mangled thro
ugh Boston. The discordance was enough to get him to look over. He liked what he saw, despite his shitty mood, and couldn’t stop the faint stirring of want coursing through his veins.

  The other man was shorter than Jamie and not as broad, dressed in ratty sneakers, tight black jeans, and a wrinkled button-down shirt that looked as if it never saw a cleaner. The sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, exposing lean forearms. Light brown hair was trimmed haphazardly to a length that wouldn’t obscure the man’s vision but long enough to be styled in some way if he put in the effort, which he hadn’t. Green eyes weren’t looking at Jamie, but at the bartender as the stranger wrangled a beer out of the establishment.

  And stayed put.

  In point of fact, he angled his body toward Jamie’s a little, one foot resting on the bar stool rung, the other planted firmly on the floor. The position put his long, lean body on display, and Jamie found himself looking without meaning to, eyes drawn like a magnet to the stranger.

  “Not buying what you’re selling,” Jamie said pointedly when it became clear the other man wasn’t leaving. No matter how attractive the stranger was, Jamie told himself he wasn’t in the mood, that he didn’t want what was very obviously on offer.

  The other man’s gaze slid his way, annoyance writ clear across his face. “Fuck you, you couldn’t afford me even if I were selling anything. This was the only free seat in the entire goddamn place and it’s been a long fucking day.”

  Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the bar, surprised to see it had filled up even more since his arrival. That he hadn’t noticed the surge of people over the past hour made him annoyed with himself. It was one thing to become distracted while surrounded by his team, quite another to do it alone. His family always did manage to throw him off his game.

  Jamie rubbed at his face and chased the bitterness coming up on his tongue with the whiskey. “Fine.”